


A Warden's Lament

by Riptide



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-06 07:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riptide/pseuds/Riptide
Summary: Maya Surana and Alistair made quite the pair in their journey through Ferelden, but before they've secured victory, Alistair is convinced that he needs to secure a crown. Whether it will prove too heavy a burden remains to be seen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AvrielleRogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvrielleRogue/gifts).

> This work started (longer ago than I care to remember) from a prompt by the excellent avriellerogue, originally only posted to FF.net. Unrelated circumstances and my then-unfinished series got in the way of continuing, but I finally found the inspiration to revisit Maya and Alistair's drama. That first chapter has been re-worked and expanded, and a few more should be in the offing, as and when I am able. And, if Maya's story takes too long, you should take a look at avriellerogue's A Warden's Celebration in the meantime. :)
> 
> Thanks also to the wonderful sarena for beta-reading! If you have a hankering for some all-grown-up Dramione drama, you should check her out!

He had to stop short at the open doorway to gather his thoughts, which had been whirring like a litter of mabari pups---or, rather, like a nest of angry hornets---ever since he’d left Anora after their little  _ chat _ . It hadn’t felt like a conversation so much as a negotiation in a language he didn’t speak, the terms of which he couldn’t begin to fathom. All he knew was that he was getting married, and not to the woman who’d captured his heart and wrapped it in a bed of roses. Now it felt like the petals were wilting, leaving thorns to claw at the inside of his ribs, and he could barely breathe as he gripped the door jamb. He squeezed tight to keep his hand from shaking in its glove.

_ She _ was there, in the arl’s study, lounging in fine robes she’d only gotten a couple of days ago upon their arrival in Denerim, reading one of Eamon’s leather-bound books. It was odd to see her so clean, after slogging through three seasons of Fereldan mud and snow in patched-together civilians’ clothes inexpertly enchanted. For the first time since Flemeth's hut she looked like a Circle mage, of the kind Alistair had been so worried about having to spend his life watching over when he had submitted himself to training as a templar. He’d thought that Duncan had freed him from worrying about gaining a mage's ire, but like with so many things he'd supposed, Alistair was wrong.  _ The Maker must have a sense of humour _ , he thought, trying to summon just a glimmer of the courage that Maya had shown over and over again on their journey. From the Tower of Ishal to the Anvil of the Void, from the Brecilian Forest to the Urn of Sacred Ashes, from the Korcari Wilds to the Denerim Alienage, the elven mage had proven herself brave and wise and  _ good _ , so much better than he'd had any right to expect in a friend, much less a lover. He owed it to her to emulate the courage she'd shown him time and again. He was going to need that courage to do what must be done, and the longer he delayed it, the harder it would be.

“Maya,” he called, softly, as he stepped over the threshold. It nearly ended him when her impossibly-green eyes flitted up from her book, and the instant look of pleasure on her freckle-dusted cheeks almost set the rosebush in his chest ablaze. He had to fight to keep his lips from tugging up in a sympathetic grin. “We...need to talk.”

Those green eyes blinked, her brows drawing together as she shifted to a sitting position. When it became clear that Alistair wouldn’t step closer she stood, sweeping a curtain of chestnut curls behind a pointed ear, uncertainty playing over her features. “Did it not go well with the queen?”

“No,” Alistair sighed. “I mean, well,  _ yes _ ...we had a...a talk,” he corrected, “and we...that is to say  _ she _ ...came to a decision. It’s all planned out, will be announced at the Landsmeet.  _ Eamon’ll _ be happy, at least.”

“But not you?”

“I...no, not really,” the reluctant prince admitted. “Not at all, actually.” Maya’s expression shifted from confusion to more obvious concern, and she closed the gap between them with surprisingly few steps. It was as natural as breathing to fold into her embrace, to let his strong arms lace across her back and pull her into his chest. He buried his miserable face in the corner of her lithe neck, breathing deeply, searching for a trace of scent of wildflowers that might still cling to her hair. He’d braided the petals into it himself, just three days ago, before the alienage and Anora’s presence in Eamon’s great house, before the promise had passed his lips and locked his hopes at the bottom of a dungeon of duty. No matter how deeply he breathed, however, there was not a hint of wildflower to be found...only the scent of lavender from the bath, the kind Isolde had favoured, the kind that would’ve been stocked in every bathing chamber in the house. “I’m so, so sorry, my love,” he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

The elven Warden stiffened in his arms, but she didn’t pull away or move to look at him. “What do you mean?” Her breath teased against his neck in a light breeze that he would’ve welcomed not half an hour before.

It was Alistair who drew back, his hands settling at her hips. His lips parted; a breath came and went, and then another, before he finally found his voice again. “I...I can’t do it,” he strangled out, and by the flash in her eyes, he guessed that she knew what  _ it _ was. “I’m...sorry. I love you too much.”  _ So much _ .

It was hardly the first time he’d expressed his feelings; a good  _ I love you, Maya Surana _ could break up the monotony of hiking through one more boggy forest or hacking off yet another genlock’s arm quite nicely, in fact, right up there with  _ Down you go _ or  _ I never knew woodpeckers were so rude _ . Apart from the sheer truth of the expression, it was always worth hearing the retching from Morrigan’s direction whenever those three words came from Alistair’s lips...not to mention the dawning grin which they’d never failed to drag across Maya’s face.

_ Never until now, that is _ , he realised, as he watched the storm gathering on the edges of her features. “What are you saying?” She asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “Is this...are you...are we…”

“We can’t do this anymore, Mai,” he said, his vision blurring before he closed his eyes. “I’ve spent my life around powerful men, married men, who... _ carried on _ with elves.”

Maya did step back, then, her robes slipping through Alistair’s suddenly-nerveless fingers. “Is that what I am to you?” Her voice was so small, it was hard to believe the same throat could nearly make an ogre’s ears bleed in the thick of the fight. “An elf you’re  _ carrying on _ with?”

His lips parted,  _ Of course not _ and  _ I’m so sorry _ fighting to crawl out of his mouth at once, to the effect that his tongue refused to cooperate at all, and he had to shake his head. Swallowing gave him a moment to think. “No,” he managed. “But that’s what you’ll be to everyone else.”

“Have you considered,” she answered, a bit more forcefully, “that I do not care what I am to  _ everyone else _ ?” There was lightning gathering in her eyes, and Alistair couldn’t tell if it was her magic or simply his imagination. “You know that doesn’t matter to me, Alistair.”

The man took another uneven breath, shaking his head again. “I know.” She’d grown up in the Circle, with no memories of any place beyond the shores of the island on which its tower stood, surrounded by templars and other mages. There was no such thing as marriage, no family as the rest of Thedas understood the term, nothing much beyond hurried trysts in shadowed corners. Falling in love was a luxury of the outside world; within the tower’s walls, it was just another weakness the templars could exploit, when push came to shove. All this and more Maya had told him on watches they’d sat, or as they lay sleeplessly in their bedrolls under the stars, and eventually within the tent they’d come to share. But he’d grown up in a castle, and then a Chantry; isolated, but hardly cloistered, he’d seen a parade of freeholders and banns pledge their vows to beloved wives or husbands, and he’d overheard rumours beyond the counting about bann so-and-so straying on his wife or freeholder such-and-such cuckolding her husband.  _ With an  _ elf _ of all things _ was always the most scandalous whisper of them all. “But it  _ matters _ , Maya. Maker’s Breath, you know I don’t want this, but I’m going to be king. That means that once this is over, if we both survive the Blight,  _ you’ll _ have to lead the Wardens in this country, rebuild them, make sure they’re respected by the kinds of people who  _ do _ care.” He was weeping, now, even as he spoke. “I can’t put you through that. It’ll be hard enough as it is.”

A few strands of those chestnut locks rose, and Alistair’s recently-honed templar skills buzzed from a surge of barely-contained magic roiling just below the surface of her flesh. “Well, then,” Maya breathed, a half-buried chuckle colouring her voice, as sharp as the blade at the end of her staff. “It seems you’ve decided everything,  _ Your Majesty _ .” This she said with the faintest of bows, though her eyes did not drop an inch. “Might I take my leave, sire?”

“Don’t do that, Mai,” he begged. “Please don’t shut me out.” There was still more to say, so much that he didn’t know where to begin, and she hadn’t said  _ anything _ , and he couldn’t live with himself if he never saw that smile again...but it was too late. He knew it when Maya raised her hand, balled into a fist, sparks dancing across her knuckles.

“Allow me to rephrase,  _ Li _ ,” she countered. “Move, or I’ll act like you’re the door you’re pretending to be. Don’t you think I won’t.”

The threat was real enough, but for a heartbeat Alistair wondered if he hadn’t been stung more by the acid edge she’d given his pet-name than he would’ve done by the bolt of lightning she was only barely holding back. Still, he found his feet shuffling him to one side, unable to keep from watching her sweep from the room. He told himself he knew better than to follow, but he took a step toward the doorway, regardless; it was only an iron-hard hand clapping down on his shoulder that kept him from following that step with another.

“I am thinking this wonderful land of fur and mud can ill-afford you diving headlong down the foolhardy path,  _ mi amigo integro _ .” Zevran’s grip relaxed as he came alongside the reluctant prince in the doorway; whence he’d come, Alistair had not an inkling. “Though, admittedly, I have little understanding of the urge to chase after an angry woman, especially if I am the cause of her anger.”

Delicately, finger by finger, the Antivan peeled his hand from Alistair’s shoulder, and he leaned against the doorway beside the would-be king. Alistair spared him a glance, but his eyes swiftly returned to the hall, though it was now as bereft as he felt. “I just...I don’t know what to do. Maker, Zev, I don’t don’t know what to do.”

“Were you less honourable, I would suggest a stroll along the docks to clear your head, among other things. But an inventory of the arl’s wine casks might be a decent idea.” When Alistair’s gaze returned, the Antivan cocked a brow and canted his head, and Alistair was all too happy to let the other man lead the way.

It  _ was _ an excellent idea, as it happened, at least until the next morning, and most of the next afternoon. But after his hangover wore off Maya still refused to acknowledge him in the halls of the estate, and despite their similar appetites, he didn’t catch her in the kitchens that night. He could find little comfort in the companions they’d gathered; Shale and Sten were utterly indifferent to the situation, while Oghren was always too deep in his cups to care. Dane, of course, was as unapproachable as his mistress. If anything, Wynne seemed pleased, or at least looked slightly less severe whenever she caught sight of him. Zevran’s advice had already been followed, at least as far as Alistair felt able, and the memory of it was too pointed to invite a second trip to the cellars. Leliana was aloof...not unsympathetic, but unwilling to show favour to either Warden. And Morrigan…well, the one time he crossed paths with Morrigan that day, he hadn’t bothered hanging around long enough to question the gleam of appraisal that snuck into her glance, beneath the accustomed contempt. Eamon was far too relieved at the  _ arrangements _ to confide in, and Alistair would rather crawl through a field of broken wine bottles than seek out Anora at the moment.

That was why Alistair spent the days before the Landsmeet with his thoughts, such as they were. When he’d lost Duncan, Maya had been there for him in those first dark days; they were both terrified, virtual strangers, with a task beyond either of their comprehension, much less their competence. She’d been there for him in Redcliffe, when it looked like darkspawn would be the least of their worries. She’d been there for him after they’d decimated Haven and he could barely cope with all the innocent people they’d had to kill. Not long after,  _ he _ was able to be there for  _ her _ in the Circle Tower, in between wading through rivers of blood shed by the only family she’d ever known. In this way they became friends, confidantes, and, eventually, lovers. But that was all gone, as swiftly and inevitably as a sunset. All that was left to him now was a terrible duty he hadn’t asked for, over and above the death sentence in his blood.

Duty, yes. Along with revenge.

oOoOo

“Stand aside.” Maya did not hold her staff, but she took a breath, letting the magic spin up within her so that it would be ready to channel at a moment’s notice. “I have no wish to kill you, Ser Cauthrien, but if you do not relent, I will be forced to.” Her voice was remarkably even, calmer than she’d felt in days. Calmer than she had any right to be, staring down the woman who’d locked her in Fort Drakon, who’d happily see her upon the headsman’s block even now.

“I would expect no less of Arl Howe’s murderers,” the warrior retorted, hoisting her greatblade with a practiced ease that promised to make the job difficult. “I do not know how you’ve escaped justice time after time, but I cannot allow you to poison the Landsmeet with your lies. The nation’s fate is at stake.”

_ Of all the sodding… _ but, before she could open her mouth or reach for her staff, the big lug beside her took a step forward, his hands raised in a supplicating gesture. “I understand you want what’s best for Ferelden,” Alistair said, and Maya didn’t trust herself to say anything that wouldn’t get him skewered by that void-forged greatblade Cauthrien kept angled high. “And I understand you owe Loghain your loyalty...maybe even your life. But you don’t owe him your soul.

“He betrayed you when he gave his daughter to Arl Howe; when he looked the other way at Howe’s villainy in the alienage; when he ordered you to turn your back on the king at Ostagar. And if you sacrifice yourself for him now, he’ll have betrayed you again, just as he’s betrayed this country.” Alistair lowered his arms, standing within easy striking distance of the woman’s blade, but he made no move to defend himself or to attack her. “I am going to address the Landsmeet, and thereafter I will assume kingship of this land. I will do everything in my power to unite us against the darkspawn, to see this Blight ended and peace restored.” He shrugged, a cynical edge creeping into his voice that twisted in Maya’s gut like a knife. “Or they will side with Loghain, spike my head outside the gate at Fort Drakon, and the archdemon will swallow the land whole. Either way, you owe Ferelden far more than you ever owed Loghain, and it would be too great a waste for you to die on this floor, no matter the outcome in the chamber beyond.”

The air grew thick with tension; Cauthrien had a few men-at-arms behind her, all armed and armoured and ready for a fight, but Maya had spent the better part of a year collecting the oddest gang of killers she could imagine from every corner of Ferelden, and unlike in Howe’s estate, every single one of them stood with her and Alistair in the Landsmeet’s antechamber. There could be a struggle, perhaps even a dear one, but if it came to blows there would only be one outcome this day.

Whether it was the surprise of Alistair’s intervention, or the sheer calculation of the odds, Ser Cauthrien relented after another handful of heartbeats. She took a step back, slowly lowering the point of her sword until it rested upon a flagstone, and she looked from Alistair to Maya. “I...owe him everything. But I am not blind to what he is becoming. I’ll not stand in your way, but I promise you, should the Landsmeet decide that Teyrn Loghain’s hands are the best to guide Ferelden, I will do my duty.”

That was about as much as Maya could ask for, and she nodded, easing the tight coil of magic she’d gathered within her as consciously as it had been summoned. “Thank you, Ser Cauthrien.” She spared a glance to Alistair, but his wry smirk only brought another twist to her intestines, and she pushed on to the Landsmeet’s assembly chamber.

Loghain was there, of course, as was Eamon, whose professions of principle couldn’t hide the fact that his principal principle was his own position. The teyrn himself was just wrapping up a rousing speech which Cauthrien’s intervention had no doubt bought him time to finish, about how Ferelden must be united, with the implication that his daughter’s arse on the throne and his hand at the till were the only means of keeping the country together and driving back the darkspawn. A hush settled over the gathered nobles as Maya and her companions made their way to the fore, and she secured Alistair’s discretion with a glance, as she’d done so often since they’d crawled out of the Wilds. If his discretion mingled with shame and regret, she wouldn’t turn down the twist in her throat or the gleam in her eye that it gave her as she addressed the men and women they would have to win over in order to leave this chamber alive.

“My lords and ladies, you have come to know me in these recent days; many by reputation, and none too few by direct acquaintance.” Loghain barked an interruption, and Eamon was all too eager to overrule him; Maya let the old mabaris snarl at each other until they settled down, and she stepped more fully into the centre of the circle of nobles, standing just outside of Loghain’s striking range. When it was clear that she had command of every set of eyes and ears in the chamber, she continued, consciously leaning into the Circle accent that made her sound more like a member of their company than an elf of the alienage. “You have had near to a year of slander from this man and his bosom companion, the late Arl Rendon Howe, who did not wait until King Cailan’s body was cold before spinning lies about the Grey Wardens and moving to secure their power here. You’ve had near to a year of witnessing this man drive your nation apart, setting you against one another at precisely the moment when you all should have joined forces against the darkspawn. None too few of you,” she repeated, casting her gaze about to catch the eyes of Alfstanna, Sighard, and Vaughan, “have suffered at Arl Howe’s hands, and none of you have profited from his perfidy...none of you, save this man, who imprisoned his own daughter rather than expose dealings with Tevinter slavers in the alienage here.”

The rage that threatened at that last had little enough to do with Alistair’s misguided gallantry, and all to do with the fact that, had things turned out just a bit differently, it would’ve been  _ her _ sold off to a magister and bound for Minrathous. She didn’t bother holding back the sparks that arced between her fingertips as she swept her hand toward Loghain, finally deigning to acknowledge him directly. “You may yet be acclaimed regent by this Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain. But while there is breath left in your body, you will never escape the shame of what you did to accomplish it, and the Maker will not soon forget who stood with you, and who stood against.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me about the Maker, witch. I’ve fought and bled and suffered for this country since before your wretched mother was born, and I’ll keep fighting, until my dying breath.” His defiance came with a snarl, but still, he sounded tired, and not at all certain that he would prevail. “You may condemn me, you may carry the day and have my head off my shoulders, but you will never know the sacrifices I have made to keep this country free, and safe. Don’t you dare judge me.”

“Free, father? Safe?” A ripple of surprise washed over the crowd as Anora stepped forward onto the balcony behind Loghain, evidently choosing this moment to emerge from the alcove whence Eamon had secreted her. Murmurs erupted around them as nobles took stock of her appearance; rumours had abounded since she’d disappeared, wild and rampant speculation about her fate, but all stood at last to be settled. “Is that what you told yourself when you had Howe imprison me in the Kendall estate? When dear Sighard’s son and Alfstanna’s brother found themselves in that very estate’s dungeons, alongside its rightful lord? When you filled your coffers with Tevinter gold?”

The teyrn had turned to look upon his daughter, his head craned back to give him a proper view, and from his profile he seemed relieved and proud, even as she drove what must have been the final nail in the coffin of his ambitions. He did not move, nor speak, not even as Eamon called for a vote to affirm Alistair as the rightful King of Ferelden and to remove Loghain as regent. He just looked up at his daughter, as though it was worth his life to memorise her face. Her own eyes filled with tears as she looked down at him, tears which only gathered as his partisans’ voices failed to carry the day.

“I’ll not go meekly to my fate,” he said at last, turning to regard Maya and her companions with a smirk. “If you truly wish me to relinquish the fate of this nation to your care, we will do it properly, under arms and witnessed by the lords and ladies present. I challenge you to a duel, Warden. Do you accept?”

The bottom fell out of Maya’s stomach as a hush fell over their audience, laws and customs more ancient than Calenhad falling into place. She could try to dispute the validity of the challenge, since the vote had been all but settled, but the warriors she hoped to corral against the darkspawn would never stop whispering about how she’d refused the Hero of the River Dane an honourable death.

Luckily, or perhaps foolishly, Maya was not the only Grey Warden present. “I accept,” Alistair said, his first words since he’d talked Ser Cauthrien out of throwing her life away. He drew the golden sword he’d reclaimed from his brother’s final battlefield, the blade that had belonged to their father, and he brushed past Maya without looking back at her.

“Very well, pup,” Loghain allowed, drawing his own steel. “Let’s see if Maric’s blood really does flow through those veins, as you claim.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was a driving rain outside---a hard, cold gale undercut with tremours and distant, rolling rumbles from the Frostbacks, so deep and resonant that it seemed the enormous statues of Orzammar had come to life and were set to work bringing the mountains down. The castle’s drafty halls largely failed to deliver upon the promise of relief, despite the rushes covering the floors or the tapestries bedecking the walls with scenes of Fereldan history, from the days before Calenhad to the gritty glory of Maric’s rebellion. She could not help but notice that none of them featured Loghain Mac Tir, and were unlikely ever to do so again. 

Maya could not wait to shirk the Grey Warden armour that she’d been so proud to don in Denerim once the ugliness of the Landsmeet was finally settled. She hesitated for but a single step by the door to the chamber Alistair had claimed, her stomach lurching as though she’d stumbled on a stair; she knew it would be easy, all too easy, to open that door and fall into his arms, fall into his  _ bed _ . To spend one more night with the man who’d shown her that she might hope for more than hurried trysts in shadowed corners in the Circle Tower---with the man who’d shown her that her heart could be solid enough to shatter. Given what they’d learnt from Riordan earlier in the day, it was likelier than she cared to admit that she would not have that chance for much longer.

She kept walking, redoubling her waterlogged steps until she found her room, and only then did she dare to breathe the sob that had gathered at the base of her throat. She rested back against the closed door, her eyes drawn tight, willing her mind to be still.

“Do not be alarmed, ‘tis only I.” As one, the voice and the aetherial presence of Morrigan brushed against her senses, and Maya’s eyes shot open. Thoughts of stripping from her sodden armour receded as the human mage emerged from a deep shadow in the corner, pausing to regard the flickering fire impassively, her furs as dry as Maya’s armour was soaked. “I think I may have a way out,” she murmured, only then bringing her kholed gaze to regard Maya evenly. “A loop for your hole.”

Maya’s chestnut hair fell thickly over her face as she dipped her head, so that she spied the Witch of the Wilds through the rain-soaked locks. “You know.” It was not a question.

“I have always known. ‘Twas why Mother bade me guide you from the Wilds, to keep your counsel and aid you in what ways my upbringing equipped me.”

“But your mother is dead, at your own request.” The old woman---or, at least, the carcass of the dragon the old woman had turned into---lay rotting in the bogs, unless the darkspawn had taken what flesh they could from her bones. Any plan the old witch had hatched with the younger one would be perforce nefarious, dangerous, suspect. Especially one hewed to despite the gruesome death of one of the conspirators at the behest of the other. “You need not do her bidding any longer.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed, glowing with a fire of their own, her face overshadowed by the flickering hearth behind her. “I act not for Flemeth’s sake, but for my own, and for yours. I know that one among your number must die, short of my intervention. Such has been the way of the Grey Wardens since the first archdemon was driven from the skies; a life for a life, both corrupted. Both lost.”

Maya dragged the thick spindles of her hair behind her pointed ears and moved to loosen the straps of her silver-and-blue armour, lifting the leather-backed ringmail from her shoulders and stepping further into the room. She gathered her mana subtly as she hung the garment onto the rack beside the fire, and she flared her arcane energy to help drive the worst of the moisture from the leather that remained upon her frame. “Speak your offer,” she said at last, standing in front of the fire, within arm’s reach of the other woman.

“There is a ritual.”

The moment drew out between them like a blade. Neither of them held their staves, but their different magical energies nevertheless intertwined in the tight quarters, and they did not do so quite seamlessly.

“Of course there’s a sodding ritual,” Maya snarked at last, her mood sharpening as her flesh dried, and she gathered her mana about herself as subtly as she was able. “We are the both of us witches, met here on this stormy night, under the cover of dark. There couldn’t  _ not _ be a ritual. But a ritual isn’t an  _ offer _ . Speak it.”

Morrigan tilted her head, regarding the Warden with something approaching wariness. “I can guarantee that no Grey Warden need fall in tandem with the archdemon, when we confront it. Conversely, should each of you predecease the beast, whomever fells it will not doom Thedas to centuries of Blight, like the unfortunate warriors of old who defeated the dragon of the First Blight without at once destroying its soul. Given the forces arrayed against us, it would be foolish not to pursue this course of action.”

Put in those terms, it was difficult not to agree straightaway. Yet Maya had not spent the better part of her life in the Circle Tower to simply take an offer given by a powerful magician, despite how tempting it might be. “What is the nature of this ritual, Morrigan? What are its implications?”

“You are most highly versed in the spirit school, but you’ve taken lessons in creation magic.” When Maya nodded, Morrigan offered a small, secret smile. “Life begets life, and death begets death. This magical law is at the core of the Grey Wardens’ conundrum, the reason that the archdemon can only truly be destroyed by the commensurate sacrifice of one of your kind. Your order has embraced death as the solution, and so must offer death in recompense. But there is another way...to remove the Old God from the influence of the taint, to cleanse it, and to restore it to life.”

Maya’s mana guttered entirely unsubtly as she worked through Morrigan’s meaning, and the possibilities narrowed with all the certainty that a river would tumble into the sea. “You want to... _ beget life _ ? With  _ him _ ?” Her throat threatened to close against the sob that tried to rise again, a possessiveness she did not even desire gripping her shattered heart.

“I must lay with him,” Morrigan affirmed, her smirk falling, the swiftness of the Warden’s deduction evidently stealing her wit. “It must be him, and it must be tonight.”

Maya took three breaths, closing her eyes against the savoury smoke of the fire. “If you had asked me before the Landmeet, I would have hesitated.” A spasm twitched across her features, but her newly-dry cheeks were not redampened when she opened her eyes to regard her companion. 

A moment passed, Morrigan searching her features with perhaps a bit more heat than Maya was used to. “I had a fancy that his foolishness would have made the decision easier—”

“Your fancy was wrong,” Maya said, casting her eyes down toward the flames. “It is not  _ my _ decision. He’s proven more than capable of deciding for himself whom he takes to bed, and whom he does not.”

“Such pettiness does not become you, Warden.” Morrigan’s tone sharpened. “You know as well as I that you are the only one among us who can convince him to lay with me; I daresay even he is not fool enough to ignore the likely consequence, but with your own vouching word, he might well be able to pretend that it is simply a different magic we weave. Can you not see that this is the only sensible course?”

Maya’s gloved hand clenched into a fist until a few droplets of water welled between her knuckles and dropping to the floor. The  _ drip drip drip _ of their impact wove beneath the hiss of the fire, and she focused on the sound as she tore her gaze from the fire to look her companion in the face once more. “You don’t know him, not as I do; even if I could be convinced that your intentions were aligned to our mission, he could not be. And, given the choice between sacrificing his life as his forebears have all done and becoming a pawn to a witch whom he does not trust, he will gladly die.”

“But will he watch you be thrown from the sky? Will he watch Riordan, friend of his beloved Duncan, be skewered by the dragon? Will he witness your newest recruit be dragged to the ground by an ogre and crushed under heel? Would he truly swallow all that he’s come to love out of reverence for tradition and suspicion of my aims?”

“As I said, you are free to try,” Maya reminded her, before she moved to the bed her bones yearned to fall into. Morrigan’s words rang like prophecy in her ears---she saw herself falling from a great height; she saw Riordan torn asunder beneath the archdemon’s claws; she saw Ser Cauthrien, who’d solemnly taken the Joining after the Landsmeet in Loghain’s place, dragged down beneath a tide of ravenous fiends. And she saw Alistair above them all, squaring off against the dragon, driving his blade deep, dying in a great gout of light that would spell the world’s salvation. “So long as you make no promises on my behalf, I will not stop you.”

Silence was her only answer, and somehow Maya wasn’t surprised when she looked over her shoulder to find that she was alone in her room. Her elven eyes had long since adjusted to the dim light, and she could neither see nor hear nor magically sense the witch’s presence. “Maker’s mercy,” she sighed, the hollowness that had pulled at her ribs since the Landsmeet tugging all the more keenly from within her chest. “Andraste’s grace.”

oOoOo

“...And then I actually  _ kissed _ the frog. Just like it was a prince under a spell. Can you  _ imagine _ ?”

Alistair hid his sigh behind a deep draught of wine; he  _ could _ imagine, all too much and all too well. He could imagine himself saying  _ yes _ . He could imagine himself standing beside her as the grand cleric pronounced them joined into one heart, and as the Landsmeet acclaimed her his queen. Maker, he could even imagine himself falling in love with her, someday.

But that day was not this day, and Arlessa Ariana must have sensed it, judging by her wry smile. “You’ve not heard a word I’ve said, have you, Your Majesty?”

The King of Ferelden ran a hand over the stubble that never quite coalesced into a beard, and this time he couldn’t deflect the sigh that slipped from his lips. “I apologise, my lady,” he allowed, not bothering to hide his chagrin. “I suppose I should ask what happened to the frog, then.”

Ariana’s laugh was authentic, more so than he’d heard all through their supper. “Perhaps you’d care to discover first-hand?”

There was an offer, there, under the joke, and one that had nothing to do with politics or Chantries or dynasties. “That depends,” he drawled, after another sip of wine had loosened his tongue, “on exactly what kind of test you’re proposing, and whether or not I get to choose where the test is to be given.”

He could tell by the colour tinging her cheeks that the arlessa had correctly guessed his implication, and some genuine curiosity bled through the mask of feigned interest she’d worn all evening. “Oh,” she sighed, “I think it might require a thorough examination, Your Majesty.”

Those two words stuck like a knife in Alistair’s chest, a reminder that he was above all a king, beholden to more than his own desires. And so, though Ariana was stunningly beautiful and strong, though he was certain she was no more interested in becoming the Queen of Ferelden than she was in becoming Empress of Orlais, and though he’d gone more than two years without even kissing another person, the King of Ferelden settled heavily back in his seat. “It has been a marvelous supper, Arlessa Ariana,” he assured her, with a smile not  _ quite  _ as bland as the stews he used to make on the road. “Please give the Arling of Edgehall my warmest regards, when you elect to return.”

While not a formal dismissal, the arlessa must have sensed that their dance had ended before it had even properly begun. “I shall, Your Majesty,” she replied. She only tried one or two more threads of awkward conversation before deciding to retire to the guests’ chambers.

More of him than he wanted to admit urged him to follow her, but when Alistair rose, he retreated back to his study, to face his sort-of-uncles’ disappointment yet again. Teagan stood leaning against a bookshelf, while Eamon sat at the desk as though he were in his own castle in Redcliffe. The greys in his thick beard had only multiplied since his ordeal with Loghain’s poison and the aftermath of the demon’s intervention, but even so, he looked haggard as he surveyed the younger man. “And what was wrong with  _ this _ one, my boy?”

Alistair swallowed, shrugging, suddenly feeling too warm in his fancy doublet with his full belly; even now, he woke up some mornings expecting rough underpadding and cold leftover stew and the scent of wild honeysuckle. “Nothing,” he admitted. “Ariana is...perfect, and I think she would make a good queen.”

The arl pinched the bridge of his nose. “And yet you will not wed her, nor even bed her on the off chance that she would produce even an illegitimate heir to secure your line,” he observed. “For Andraste’s sake, lad, as well as your own...tell me why.”

“Because,” Alistair ventured, “I...do not love her.” 

Arl Eamon scoffed. “Love has nothing to do with it, my boy,” he said, not for the first time that week. “You must be pragmatic if you wish to retain the throne you won during the Blight.”

Alistair grimaced. He’d vowed once to marry out of pragmatism, only to watch that pragmatism drain away like Loghain’s blood from the end of his sword. In the end Anora had gone to Gwaren as its teyrna, ruling the land competently and well, and only returned to Denerim to make her voice heard during the Landsmeet. She’d married a bann with Alistair’s blessing and had given birth to a pair of twins since quitting the capitol, a fact which Eamon sometimes brought up during these little post-supper chats of theirs. That he had initially downplayed the broken betrothal as a positive because of Anora’s supposed infertility gave the old man no pause that Alistair had ever sensed.

Teagan stepped into the long gap left by the king’s private musings. “Was it pragmatism which brought Isolde over the Frostbacks and cost you nearly half your freeholders, dear brother?”

Eamon’s cheeks faintly reddened beneath his whiskers, Alistair thought, but it might have been a trick of the candlelight. “And I need not remind you that my obstinacy did not exactly result in the best outcome for my people,” he pointed out, and then he rose slowly to his feet. “Had I listened to my wise counsellors, I might well have saved Redcliffe a great deal of grief during the Blight.”

“You cannot know that, Eamon,” Teagan insisted, the familiarity of fraternity giving him leeway to chastise the arl without fear. “And it is all well and good trying to tell the boy to avoid your mistakes, but that hasn’t precisely worked out in the outcome you desire, has it?”

The elder brother turned to face the younger, leaving Alistair quite out of the centre of attention, which he was very comfortable with. “What you propose is madness, Teagan,” Eamon said, and the king got the sense that the arl was again repeating himself. “The Landsmeet will never stand for it.”

Alistair blinked, his head still a bit cloudy from the supper wine. “What are you two talking about? Do  _ you _ want to be king, Teagan?” The question was only half in jest, for if the older man had truly shown any desire for the role, Alistair wasn’t certain he wouldn’t surrender his crown before the fortnight was through.

But, alas, the bann’s laugh dispelled any fantasies of retiring that Alistair might have wished to entertain. “Nonsense, Your Majesty. In any case, you know I’ve not yet wed, and have no heirs apparent. Given my age, it’d be a hard sell to the other nobles, even if I had a drop of Calenhad’s blood in my veins.”

Alistair swallowed hard against the twin objections that rose in the back of his throat. On the one hand, Fereldan noble bloodlines were just as intertwined as any kingdom’s, and he was certain that  _ some _ connection between the Guerrins and the Theirins could be found or fabricated; on the other, it was almost certain that Teagan could produce an heir more reliably than Alistair would...though neither Teagan nor Eamon knew that. He might not be a very good one, but he was still a Grey Warden, and he could still keep a few of their secrets. Clearing his throat, Alistair shook his head. “Then what are you on about?” He broached. “What  _ else _ won’t the Landsmeet stand for?”

Eamon veritably rolled his eyes, while Teagan drew in a steadying breath. “As of tonight, you have met and dined with every Fereldan noblewoman of note, from all corners of the country, and even three foreign princesses that would have proved acceptable matches. Sometimes with excuses and sometimes without, you’ve politely declined to offer your hand to any of them---”

“---Much to the consternation of the nobles of the Landsmeet,” Eamon cut in, provoking a wince from the young king.

Teagan threw his brother a glance, waiting until it was clear he wouldn’t be interrupted again before continuing. “I know  _ why _ you’ve found everyone wanting,” he admitted, his eyes going to the middle distance and his lips grimacing beneath his goatee. “There is someone who’s already taken your heart, to whom everyone else simply fails to measure up. Don’t bother denying it,” the bann insisted, when Alistair’s fumbling tongue tried to marshal an objection. “Even if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, it’s obvious to Eamon and me that you were madly in love with the Commander of the Grey during the Blight. Despite your protests to the contrary, it’s equally obvious that you still  _ are _ , as well.”

Arl Eamon scoffed, and it wasn’t clear whether he was more disgusted with his brother or his not-quite-nephew. “Even if that is true,” he insisted, “it is irrelevant. Marriage is not and should not be the business of love, but of alliance. Teagan’s proposal gains us nothing, and stands to lose us everything.”

The portrait wasn’t exactly clear, but Alistair was getting a better idea what Bann Teagan was driving at. “Wait...you mean…”

“I mean that if you will not marry someone you do not love, then we should consider extending an invitation to someone you do.” Eamon made another noise to interrupt again, but Teagan plowed on. “The situation is quite simple; if you do not soon marry and shortly thereafter produce an heir, the Landsmeet will select someone for the throne who  _ can _ .”

“And then all we’ve worked for,” Eamon broke in, with a glare to his brother, “all Maric and Rowan fought for and built will have been for nothing. But if you think the banns, arls, and teyrns of Ferelden will accept an elven apostate as their queen---”

“An elven apostate who happens to be the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Redcliffe,” Teagan pointed out, “and the only reason Ferelden isn’t a burning crater being squabbled over by Orlesian dukes at this very moment. Not to mention her great care in saving both your lady wife and son, when it would've been far less personally dangerous to simply slaughter them to end the ordeal they perpetuated. If there is any Fereldan more worthy of sharing the throne with Alistair, we would be hard pressed to name her.”

Alistair’s throat dried up like a desert, saving him from stammering incoherently. Teagan and Eamon were his closest advisors, as close to father figures as he’d ever had in his life, and this line of reasoning by the Bann of Rainesfere was entirely unexpected. The king had spent much of the last two years trying to convince them that he was over Maya; he hadn’t seen the woman since she’d taken possession of Vigil’s Keep, and that one meeting on the road before the fortress was enough to convince him that she wasn’t going to forgive him for the mess he’d made of things. “Excuse me,” he said, but his words were lost in the brothers’ continued bickering; the arl's reminder of his personal debt to Maya didn't seem to make him less argumentative. “Hey!” The king called, more loudly, getting the older men’s attention. “You might have seen me covered in mud as a child, but you made me your king, and I  _ will _ get a word in edgeways. Do you understand?”

Eamon gathered himself first, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Yes, Your Majesty?” His obsequeity seemed only slightly feigned. “What have you to say about my brother’s mad idea?”

Teagan’s voice rose in protest, but Alistair overrode him. “I think you’re forgetting,” he observed, “that the one woman I love is likely the only woman in the country who would reject anything I suggested, whether it was what to eat for breakfast or to spend the rest of her life with me.”  _ And it’s all my fault _ , he reflected, smirking wryly at himself.  _ If I hadn’t been so stupid… _

“Be that as it may,” Teagan insisted, “we cannot continue as we’ve done thus far without fear of renewed civil war. We must ask ourselves if that risk is worth the asking...of the Landsmeet, to accept the Warden, and of the Warden to accept the Landsmeet.” The bann’s gaze rested heavily upon the king. “What say you, Alistair? Would you sacrifice your crown for the one you love, or sacrifice your love to keep your crown?”

When put in those terms, the King of Ferelden saw that there was no real choice. He couldn’t continue as he had been, spending his days sitting in judgment of petty squabbles amongst his banns and his evenings fending off advances from eligible noblewomen, most of whom desired and deserved the throne more than he himself did. No, if there was anything the last two years had taught him, it was that he would rather chase his heart into oblivion than cut his palms to the bone grasping desperately at the circlet of iron that Eamon and Teagan had won him. “Alright,” he said, a hollow in his chest tugging at the inside of his ribs. “But only on one condition: I’ll deliver the message myself, and bring back her reply.”

Eamon’s whiskers twitched. “My boy…”

“No,” Alistair corrected him. “Your king, at least for the nonce. And if Maya will have me, she’ll be your queen.”  _ If _ she’d have him, and that was a big  _ if _ . But by the Maker, he was willing to try.


End file.
